Not Your Average Mpreg
by DannyPhantomOfTheAvatar
Summary: Johnlock. Mpreg. Sherlock goes through the suprisingly odd scenarios involving having children, and to his 'fortunate' soul, he is the one bearing. (May or may not have implanted joke into chapter titles)
1. Tell me the story

**AN: please don't get the italicized text confused with the unitalicized. Please enjoy this Johnlock Mpreg. John-lock and drop it!**

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_All day I have felt this nauseatious overtake beating at me. Sweat, since I woke up hours ago from a slumber I don't remember falling into, has been pouring down my back and coating my forehead. My less-than nimble fingertips worked their way onto the tedious buttons on my white and very much soaked button-up. I am starving, yet I know I wouldn't be able to hold down the simplest of foods or liquids. I am scared as well, I am never this hungry. And I have never felt 'this' sort of sickness before. _

John and I walk the streets after a successful arrest of a murderous magician. I say magician with a light air since the only magic he's conjured is robbing people blind, with a small side job of killing the showgirls. However, this is not my problem anymore. Whatever sort of glitterized, gun pointing the two of us were doing ten minutes ago is of no relevance. I am on another task, one consisting of getting John his dinner and hydrating my slowing body.

"Damn. You see that, Sherlock? Our diner is already closed!" I can hear John lick his lips in thought as he continues. "Do you think Speedy's is still open by any chance?" I want to say 'yes' for his amusement, but I know the times, I have saved them in my memory for his use only. For times like this. "We could stop by a grocer if your that hungry..." And I knew he was. John couldn't go a few days without food like I. So it was sort of my obligation to make sure I don't kill him over of starvation.

_So hungry. But the hunger doesn't compare to the ricochet of pulsation coming from my abdomen. My useless legs stumble towards the bathing room. I would much rather be there than puking my empty stomache on Mrs. Hudson's nice wooden floors and antique rugs. I flail a step or two before banging to my knees. Crawling is the best option now. Close to the ground at least. In this POV I see my veining hands reaching forward, my clothed knees (which are now stinging) following after my hands, and a drop of sweat or spit falling to the nice floor every two or three steps. It really isn't as painful as my body thinks. The hellish thing disobeys my simple commands to just 'function properly!'. _

"Grocer? Sherlock, we smell like stage smoke and gun powder." A 'no' then. I sigh, it's late and I'm ready to just get on with life. John stops at a corner, eyeing both vacant ways. "Let us just go to the pub around the bend. 'M Pretty sure they sell more than booze and drugs." Of course they do John, could you be more obt- Oh, it was a joke. That was quite funny. I unintentionally let out a small chuckle, "The pub? The one we pretended to be-" John clears his throat perposefully loud. "Yes." He croaks, and he's already a considerable few feet in front of me, lining straight for the building. "-And got a free lunch?" Which we did. That was a fun crime to solve. "Do you think the owner will recognize us, John?" I push his buttons just a little harder than usual.

He doesn't reply, but I do get a great and pouty look screaming at me to just 'shut the hell up'. I do, however, it doesn't stop me from grinning ear to ear. Getting under his skin is as fun as any solved mystery. I slowly catch up to John who is impatiently holding the door open for me to go in first. I'm always the first. But this, this could be from the dangers that is being alone in a London pub. At night. The cigarette smoke pouring to the cold streets welcomes me in any form. I walk in happily.

_I was so blandly focused on my feet and hand-work that I am surprised to catch myself palming the cool tile of the bath room in the dark. I want to just bolt away from it, but I am just so damn hot. But my hands are just so fucking freezing! I take a second to just think. I sit back on my hind and recollect what is going on. Okay. It is nearly midnight, right? John's coming home any minute. I am probably suffering from minor- (my stomache churns and I jerk forward)- Moderate food poisoning or dumb organ-origined illness. I am fine, though. I just need to breath... In and out, in and- I hurry forward to the toilet, sloppily dropping my head and expelling pure bile. It tastes like my drug days, except not as acidic coming back up. _

John and I seat ourselves in at a safe table near the doorway. The pub is dark and smokier than imaginable, and I am sure John is struggling to suppress a cough. I stare at him intently, waiting for him to give up on eating or cough-attack his way outside. He doesn't move, but his eyes do find mine curiously. Wondering why I am staring. He knows why. "What poison can I get for you two lovers tonight?" A extremely young, used, and endowed blonde yells ignorantly above the music I hadn't noticed playing. She's twirling a pencil in her hair and holding a nearly empty notepad in hand. I flick an eye to John, awaiting his usual banter back at her. "We're not lovers." There it is. She smiles fondly, and begins chewing on gum that was hidden in her cheek. "Apologies, hun. I mean for the lovely couple?"

I find it endearing how John, despite his obvious annoyance with her, still looks the lass up and down. Like she were a meal herself. My patience wears thin, however, and I punch myself in, "He will take your best burger and beer, and I will have a tall glass of lemonade." John's stare immediately grabs me, and he's piercing it through. The young lady begins writing, "A Nasty Joe with a Nogger, and a hard lemonade. Coming right up dearies!" She flips her hair our way and spins off in a mad dash. She has a room full of people to get orders to. "Oh. Sherlock Holmes is going to drink alcohol! Lets see how this plays out, shall we?" John undermines me, like always. I didn't necessarily WANT a hard drink, but I guess I didn't specify otherwise, we are in a pub for crying out loud. "Yes, we shall." My sight is found at the mysterious customers at the bar.

_My head bobs up for air, and the lightless bathroom seems luminous compared to the inside of the toilet's bowl. I do not care, though, I am swept with an urge to sleep again, and I rest my head against my shoulder. My mouth is dry as heck and all I want is to sleep, take a shower, eat, and at least have a clue as to why I feel like dying. Well, I do have clues, but they aren't helping much. As my eyes flutter close, I pray John doesn't come looking for me. The last thing I need is his sympathy. I mustn't worry right now. All I care for is the dripping of the sink's faucet, dropping water droplets two at a time._

John has his food in front of him before our drinks come out. Rather odd, I think, but at least we have them now. John's dark beer and my wierdly milky yellow alcoholic lemonade. I turn it around a few times before sipping gingerly at it. John goes straight to eating and chugging both food and drink. Being in places like this lets his barrier come down a notch, so he doesn't feel obliged to act like a gentlemen. Yet he stops a number of times, as if waiting for me to say something. I do, eventually, but am I that predictable? "The men at the bar behind you keep looking our way. I think they want trouble." I wait for him to swallow his food and glance back quickly. "They don't look like anything but drug dealers, Sherlock, just finish your drink and I'll pay the bill."

I don't want my disgusting knock off of a drink anymore, but since John's paying I finish it off anyway. John pushes his empty tray and glass aside and fishes out his wallet, hailing the blonde tease of a waitress. "That will be forty even, boys." She hands over an almost unreadable ticket and sticks her palm out. John willingly pulls out a forty and lays it in her hand, I barely catch her wrist to stop her. "Miss. The ticket reads thirty, not forty. Begging for a tip?" Her all smiles face drops and she chucks the money down. "God! I thought gays were nice." I see John's thankful smile out of the corner of my eye as he corrects the change.

_A roar of light burns through my eyelids and suddenly my dream of sword fighting with the pirates turns into being painfully stabbed. Sleep was so much more magical than chloroformic reality. I was on edge of passing out. I blink violently to the lights, then the figure at the door. John. With his mouth hung, eyes fixed, breath quickening, he looks far worse than me I bet. He doesn't move just yet. My body convulses again and I spit out another mouthful of tasteless vomit, letting it colorlessly drip down my chin. A noise of being strangled drug out and echoed in the room, and God that was me. I haven't a clue if I was attempting words or crying for help, but it moved John. He was at my side in seconds, feeling my head, whispering questions I couldn't answer, then he was gone. In slow motion I caught fragments of what he was doing, my whole body turning with me achingly. I needed in the bathtub. Badly._

_Waking back up was the worst thing that could've happened. I was crawling the small space to the tub, my knees gave way a number of times before my chin rested on the tubside and my hand was collasping and reaching its way for the knob. I needed hot water, no cold, freezing... I needed to be submerged. My hand didn't reach, however, John's hand was on mine and he had a wet washcloth at my head. "I'm taking you to the clinic in the morning." His words were painfully slow, reaching my ears in snail pace. But they weren't what I wanted to listen to. Whatever face I had twisted on dropped dramatically and I threw a 'no' look at him. Doctors didn't like me, and I only liked one doctor. _

"Please tell me you feel slightly off like I do." John was squinting as we exited the pub, and had walked a couple feet away, "Or don't. Whichever way seems better." He looked wide eyed, his skin flush, hands almost sad without something in them. "I feel somewhat hazy, but nothing major. Are you feeling drugged, John?" Those were possibly the exact words to describe how he was feeling. His eyes go wide and he nods hugely at me, stumbling into my side. "It's nice, though. I feel rather happy, rather..." John normally licks his lips, it's a trait he carries, but as he does it now, looking at me, it's for another reason. "Aroused?" I knew what it was. It was so obvious already. Those guys in the bar, the strangely timed drinks, the blonde stripped for cash. I began feeling a mix of dopamine run in my head, the happy feeling in the beginnings of progression.

"Don't say that. And yes." He's leaning so fully into me I have to concentrate on walking for both of us. (Also) Times like these make my days of drug use helpful, so that I'm not equally falling to the ground like John. Not yet. "We can easily sleep it off. The trick is getting home." I visualize the few blocks to the flat, we can get there. John nips a word into my side, he's trying to tell me something but would I really trust listening to a drugged John? He may actually be quite fun, but now isn't the time. "The bad guys!" He finally muffled shouts. 'Oh'... 'yeah' the bad guys, we have to get the bad guys. "The HELL to them!" I manage, because frankly I don't give a fucking damn about them. I care about getting home in one, pleasant peace.

_"No arguing. Not this time. If you aren't doing well in the morning then you are definitely going!" This wasn't something John wanted to see, and I didn't want him to see it. If he'd only just go mind his own. I gag again, my face being pointed to the tub, John's hands on my back rubbing. He's never done this, it's clear, but he has dealt with drunk friends before. This is what I feel like. An annoyance of a drunk friend you have to watch so they don't choke on their own puke. I struggle again when nothing comes up, I still want in the tub, bad. John blows copious amounts of air from his lungs and I am suddenly being hoisted into the place I wanted most. But once I'm inside, I feel no better. I feel worse. I need water. "Just hang on."_

_The shower head looks at me and soon sprays evenly over my thankful body. The water is cold, but it feels so much better. I drop my tongue out and lap at it, hoping to subside the lack of fluids in my body. But John isn't gone yet. Why? I look over at him, and he's watching me like I'm a child. "You were fine when I left. You were sleeping." His voice is more frustrated than I recall. I bring my eyebrows together and look at him confused. What is he getting at? He doesn't have to just stand there and watch me, so why does he do it? _

Getting home was the easy part. Fishing out my keys with shaking hands was the beginning of the hardest. "You should reeaalllly just run ahead of me once this door opens." John was warning me, not just ordering. I chance a look his way once I put the key in the slot, he's worse than I thought. His ears are flush along with his cheeks and neck, a hand placed thoughtfully over the front of his trousers (if I could, I wouldn't look too far into it), And his lips are being licked. He's ready to pounce in a simplest sense. "I was going to say the same to you."

I said it before thinking it over, the drugs the ecstacy made me say it, there was no control. I'm finding myself not in my right mind, I am not Sherlock Holmes right now. I am pure urge. Something I'm not quite comfortable with being around John. The door opens, yet I hesitate to take his heed to action. Behind me, John's breath becomes laboured, what is he thinking? My feet go forward now, and I am hurdling over the stairs. I grab and twist the door handle and stumble to my feet, stopping abrubtly inside. Made it.

_"Can you strip on your own?" His voice sounds far off, he wants me to take off what clothes I have left. My mind says I can't, yet I shake my dizzy head, leaning forward on my propped knees. My shirt is basically falling off, so I can slide it down my arms easily. John says something else before dashing off, everything is so mumbled I cannot decipher it. Not even the water spraying sounds normal, it's growling at me. My hands slip over the button on my tight pants, I get it undone but I knew I'd pass out before shucking them off as well. John returns with my robe, he's on the phone talking more nonesense, but his eyes are on me. I think he may be trying to diagnose this. _

_He walk to the tubside, and thinking he's going to give me the robe, I raise my arm to him. John doesn't, he presses the cell inbetween his ear and shoulder and his hands are on the thigh's of my trousers. He says something again, then pulls roughly. The jerking motion hurts like hell, but it's over and I'm naked and I am clean. He looks like a doctor right now, even when he avoids his gaze, I see Dr. Watson. He turns off the water and lays my robe along my body, whispering something now. And again, I miss it. I should thank him, but I can't._

"Sherlock." A desperate choke comes from the doorway behind me. He's supposed to be in his room, doing whatever he wants with his time, not spending that time with me. It's dangerous, it's very wrong. "Shut the door." It's comes out as an invitation. I am aware of something I've kept from myself a long time. Sexuality. Or better perhapse, 'my' sexuality. It's not difficult to deduce from my bodies reaction to the drugs. An erection and a steadying heartbeat. "With you inside." I explain further. John's sweaty, and if it weren't for his own sported tent I'd say he's pulling his jumper off his head out of pure heat exhaustion. He is undressing though.

And I am too, and it's exciting. Thrilling. And scary. "Take that- All of that off." John works at his undershirt and belt smoothly, and I have to reconsider this a minute. Am I really this drugged? This high? Could I actually take advantage of this situation? The answer was yes, and John said yes many minutes ago. And just a few minutes later, I am shirtless, wearing nothing but my boxers I kept on just incase I found my right mind. Just incase. John did the same, so maybe there was a way out. But as I look across the way, bare chested, with two obvious erections between us, that 'Just Incase' isn't looking so swell. I want him.

_I fell asleep to the roar of John's voice in my head, I was happily curled in the tub and the pain slowly subsiding in my sleep. Even though I could go for a full eight hours, my body protested. I was still hungry beyond belief. When my eyes did open again, I could read the clock from my room, thankful the door was still open. 7:04. It was now or never to determine if I could stand long enough to raid the kitchen, now or never. _


	2. Okay, bare with me

_I decided it was best to rinse off one more time before attempting to get up. The cold water invited me last night, but pushed me away this morning. It was at its usual temperature, scalding hot. My mind runs around John now. Asking, 'Where is he?' or 'He said he'd take me to the clinic.' but he was nowhere to be heard from. I lean and turn the water back off, and run my legs under my body, standing. _

_I wrap my robe loosely around my body, and take a test step for the door. Luckily, that shooting pain isn't as bad, hell, it's practically gone. So I take another step, the cold tile isn't as cold as it was just hours ago. Then another. I look down to my feet, but my eyes are drawn. Usually, I notice things like this... Strange. Unless. No. Unless that torture from last night resulted in this. A swollen, tight, hip popping belly. I 'AM' sick. I'm dying. _

"I told you to take it all off." John's whisper spoke loud in my ear despite our distance. He was testing me. His mind was rethinking the possibilities like mine were just doing. He wants to see me crack first. "Why don't you come over here and fix that for me." I am too utterly gone to play dumb or strong. The meds were pumping viciously throughout my veins and I was at its mercy. I was desperate for a release I wasn't familiar with, or hadn't felt since puberty at least. And at the moment, John could subdue this.

His eyes go away from mine and he's directing his sight to my chest, eye level. He's so distracting. Everything from his shot wound on his left shoulder, to the graying hairs on his head. They were my secret turn-on. I wasn't as drawn to the perfect curve of his mouth, the way his skin tans without fault, or the muscles splaying in his chest. I'm so lost into looking at him, that I don't realize that he's stalled infront of me, panting a hot, damp breath into my space. And I cannot help but wonder what I am to him. I have a thin figure, nice 'v' hanging from the top of my boxers, pale and barely nitched skin, and a brain to die for (i think). But none of that seems like something John would notice.

_I neglect that horrible thought. There is no reason to dwell on it when John seemed so dire to help. I set my mind back to my growling stomach, stepping quite surprisingly to the kitchen. Never would I have thought I could go through pain like last night and be fit for a run the next morning. Again, I focus my thoughts to breakfast. Knowing for a fact that John had cereal bought up yesterday evening, I make myself a bowl. I must look silly. Or pathetic. A mostly naked male, pouring a milkless bowl. My hair matted to my head from laying on it. And I am not one hundred percent sure that I smell too great. But my suspicions of John being out is correct. _

_The flakes and oats are tasteless, but somehow I cannot stop eating. I could be content to sit here in the unlit room all day, butt scooted to the end of the chair and neck resting on the back of that chair, bowl in my left hand and fork (there were no clean spoons) in the right. Contentment. Though, contentment goes only so far. I am still overly tired and as the slow minutes pass, my eyes become heavy. And it seems as if I will spend all day like this. I am so utterly tired._

I inhale his breath warming my chest, and I find this a little too intoxicating. Like I can only hold on for so much longer. Yet I can only keep calm before John breath's sharp and loud, his hands go for my forearms and he grips hard into the flesh and muscle. My hands go instinctively to his elbows, or what I can reach of him, and I pull him closer, urging more contact. He trips into me, but his mouth goes quickly to my collar, licking it into his teeth. This sort of stimulation is so much better than cocaine. So much fuller. I silently drop my mouth and gasp in and out, my hands now gripping for his hair trying to grind him down. John moves up, I know my height difference makes it hard for him to get what he wants, so I tilt my head down, heaving my own tainted breath to mingle with his.

He takes the invitation, going straight for tongue and dismissing a kiss of any kind. If I know sex at all, this encounter will be brief and to the point. His tongue tastes like the beer he chugged before running out of the pub. It's warm and nerve jolting and everything is so much wetter with a tongue on my own. I bend my knees and lean down and in for the kiss, pressing into his mouth as much as I can before I mouth tires of being held open. John's throat lets out a desperation of help that is sent straight down my spine. He licks again at my lips before leaning back, "The room. Your- Your room."

_A loud, obnoxious noise wakens me up. My eyes open just in time to see John walking in with his work sachel hanging off his shoulder. "How did you get in here?" He just got off work, this must be his break. But isn't it like seven in the morning? I look to the clock. Damn, I've slept till lunch. 11:37. I'm still in my position, so at least I didn't fall off the chair or break the bowl. "I walked." Isn't it rather obvious, John? His eyes give me a look saying, 'No, it isn't obvious'. He blinks his eyes away a second before scarily walking and stomping his hand down on the table. "You were practically dead last night! Tell me how you got here." His look is scarier than his words, because I know he cared. But I don't know if it was for the Sherlock last night or for Sherlock every night._

_"I woke up this morning feeling very hungry. I wasn't in any pain, nothing I couldn't deal with. I ate your crappy cereal and now I am fine." NO I'M NOT JOHN! I regret to inform you that I have a possible shock injury in my abdominal area, that could be spreading as we speak. "Get dressed. I am taking you." He orders me, grabbing the bowl from my hands and putting it aside. I mumble a complaint, then voice it. "I do not feel the need to-" His look gets to me, "Did it sound like I was asking? Get dressed." Oh god, this was a whole other side of caring. The side that sucks like hell._

I blank out while falling over John to my bedroom. My back is wrestled down to the bed, and John's legs are instantly spread over mind. A reality of this ever happening is washing over me. Will we ever recover from such a thing? God I hope so. "Mm, -so how are we doing this?" I hear it loud and clear in my ear, then a wet mouth clamps to my lobe. He really does want this. "Just do it." My once vacant hands are reunited with John's back, and I want his skin in my skin, I need it. Sounds I don't recognize bellow from the both of our throats, our hips needingly grinding up and down with one another. Light from the street lamp outside as our only light.

His warm hand frolicks to elastic of my black boxers. He's shaking, badly, and accidentally pops me once with it, whispering an apology as he kisses down my torso. I want to tell him it's okay. But I wish to just hold him and possibly do regrettable things instead. His head is where his hands are now, and his lovely eyes lock with mine with a question inside, I answer with a look of my own. And slowly he pulls the hinerance from my hips, not looking away from my eyes. "Come here." I voice, yet he's heard me before I spoke, and his lips requite with mine. My fingers dip into the fabric of his own useless underwear.

_I am helped dressed like a six year old, being told to 'walk here' and 'arms up' and even 'stay there'. But soon enough I am pliant to be cab driven to the clinic. John already has me a room and everything ready, so apparently he put more thought into my well being than previously expected. The cold air of the building puts a nice chill to my skin. It's so unlike the morgue, here, I can feel death approaching. At the morgue, I sit and have tea with it. John soon leaves me side, going to his own office, pointing to the room i'm expected to sit in. "John, wait!" I call, but his door is closed. And I'm faced to go alone. _

_Alone's better. A nurse in gear much like the women back at the hospital wear is sitting at small desk with a computer, she smiles. "Sit up here and we'll have a doctor come in to give you a check-up." I walk over to the short counter and sit where instructed, watching the woman place a stethescope and leave. I am not meant to be in here. This place reeked of good hygiene and poor hygiene at the same time. And everything is so clean and sanitized it's impossible to get a read on anything. _

After much fumbling, John too is free of any clothing, yet neither of us have dared to look. Only the great shock of our erections touching one another sends us gasping and grinding down. And I look... Hard. John is leaned back, leveraging himself and finding a glimpse as well. But he immediate ducks his head back to the place between my head and shoulder, curling in and holding on. "C-Can? Sherlock, can I?" His vocabular reboots but I understand, and I pull his lips in for one more kiss, "Please do."

Compared to the need I myself, and obviously John, feel, this has all happened too slow. So I am very surprised when John produced what I suspect is lube. In reality, it could have been actual lube, jelly, or literally cooking oil. But I didn't care, nothing mattered. All that I saw was something to smoothen this thing along. My head is thrown back when I feel a solid, warming hand on me. He's hesitant, but strokes his hand up and down. This. This I know he knows how to at least work. And it feels like, like um, very... Amazing. Is there another way to describe euphoria? To have another human's touch lacing your nerves?

_The doctor approaches me with a clip board. I can see the papers and they are my information. John must've done this. "Sweating, neausia, claminess, unresponsiveness, and bloating. Mr. Holmes, I am Dr. Drewerson." His smile is grotesque with happiness. How could you be happy being around this all the time? Well, to each their own, I do find delight in solving murders. "I don't need to be here." Yes I do, but I don't need a doctor to diagnose me, I can do it on my own. Eventually. "I'm sorry you feel that way, but you do look a bit under the weather." I nod at him, giving up with any disagreement. I do feel the impact from last night._

_"Alright, then! Let's do a general check-up and we can see to fix that." Again, the smile. Though the pain of the check-up is fast, until he asks for me to pull my shirt up, to see the reguards of the so-say 'bloating'. John must've seen it, or noticed. It didn't just pop up overnight, but I do tend to forget about my own changes. I lift my shirt slowly, showing him the stretch I couldn't suck in. I watch his face change in judgement, then he lifts his freezing hands to my stomach, feeling the fullness of it. "This is much more than bloating, I'm afraid." It's reasurring somewhat. "What do you say about a sonogram? Just to get a quick look at it?" He licks his lips into a worried smile. I missed the other one. I swallow, "Lets get it over with." _

I was so unthralled with him jerking me off that I didn't realize what we were doing. John's face was over mine soon, and here we were, sideways on my bed about to have a one night stand-ish endeavor. I suck John's tongue into my mouth and his hand moves lower and lower until he grabs his own erection and sets it at my entrance. God, this is wrong but damn if it doesn't get your pulse up! My feet go to his butt and he pushes in, the surprise factor nearly jolting me out of my drunk-like haze. But it doesn't, I am too erect to think about the pain. My feet pull him in, and he's controlling himself with whatever piece of John is left. "Fuck." His breath hitting my cheek. "That's the point." I bite at his ear.

It's blunt but he slowly sinks in, and it is safe to say the 'virgin' title is meaningless. I feel the intesity pulsing throughout my lower half, and I could swear I could be torn apart any second. I struggle while he bottoms out, it's too much. He pets the side of my head, looking at me, then resumes pumping me with his other. Maybe this isn't such a bad thing, I mean we aren't doing anything illegal. He shifts his weight when he hits it suddenly, that one place inside a male that only a guy man would know about. Yeah, he's found it. "St, Ah GOD! John." My legs tighten around him, John lets out a sigh of relief, pulling out quickly and sinking back in with the time it took the first time. "move." I heave out. John shivers and leans down, his hips resuming their movement, "hmm?" His voice rougher, tongue darting to the vein on my neck. "MOVE DAMNIT!" My hand digs in hard into his buttcheek.

_The time to get prepared and inside the sonogram room is short. The room is warmer and it's painted with pinks and blues and yellows. Clearly, it's meant for expecting mothers. And here I am on my back, belt and pants undone, a oddly warm coloured jelly coating half of my abdomen and an older doctor coming at me. I watch him waitingly, seeing his eyes focus on the screen just to my right. All I see is a bunch of nothing, empty space occupying the cavity. So I'm hopeful that whatever it is isn't threatening. Then I look over to Dr. Drewerson's reactions, his face so concentrated on looking for something out of the ordinary. I open my mouth to ask him something when I see his face change from 'ordinary check-up' to 'holy hell what's this?'. He cuts me off..._

John inhales sharply, then begins harshly throwing rapid and REAL thrusts my way. So this is what sex really is like. Moving and working to some orgasm that releases what pent up need you have. It feels pretty damn addicting. I arch my back, hopeful for him to continue slamming into that one spot. His hand moves quicker over my length and he's stuttering in breath. "There, please, just keep it right there. I'm just so close to-" I can't speak anymore, I'm so close to blacking out I preserve my heavy breath. John begins making very loud and deep urging noises through his open mouth. He's so beautiful like this.

My mind is so lost in watching John move and work himself in me that my orgasm comes at me like a bullet. I'm so out of breath I make no noise, and I hold onto John's shoulders and back as my release shoots into his hand. His hand's roughness working me through the waves of pleasure. John speeds up as well, slamming home in me. The sensitivity is alot to bear but watching John come undone is a reward in itself. He pumps one, twice, three more times before holding in and pretty much coating me inside with the warm, hot, slick liquid. He picks up his head, a nitch of tiredness rings up in his expression, and he smiles selfconsciously. I smile back, pulling him in for one last kiss. On top of the lips, close mouthed, eyes open and wondering, sedated.


	3. I'm still listening

_"One second, let me get an assisstant to verify this." Drewerson's face is a mixture of 'medical mystery' and 'happy as fuck'. But if there's one thing I DO NOT want, it's for everyone in the clinic to know about this, about me. "Doctor, I'd rather go back to my flat wondering if I'm dying or not. Please stop wasting your time, because I know you know what you see." He leans back forward in his chair, and I know he understands why I'd rather not have him get his assisstant. Instead he begins taking multiple screencaps of the sonogram screen, the whole time stuttering to inform me of whatever it is he sees._

My head spins as if it's connected to a ferris wheel, slowly but constant. I haven't the faintest idea how I made it home. Hell, I haven't the faintest idea what happened past walking the streets with John. The way I am feeling, the hungover factor and the tingling in my hands and feet is very much unparellel to the spectacular beating in my chest. I feel accomplished in something, my whole body is just happy to lay helplessly on my floor next to my bed. The afternoon sun perfectly smacking me in the face. Yet any little annoying thing is okay right now.

_Dr. Drewerson is speaking in mad tongues now. He's successfully documented this little sonogram meeting in his own handwriting and in screencaptures. The only clues he's given me of my illness are the three things that spilled from his mouth, 'never seen before'. My hand is clenching hard now to the bed i'm laying on, and the Dr. decides now is the time to take me to another room, for another experiment. "John Watson, can he come too?" I ask, but he doesn't hear me, he's ordering me to lie on another, harder countertop-like bed. I try and plead again to the wide-eyed Doctor once more before he slams the door on me, to wait alone. "John?" _

My mind is so full of this 'mush' that I all but float to the shower, getting there without my own knowledge. Behind the mask of feel-good, little kinks in my neck, back, and other equally painful places hinder me from enjoying the shower. In the back of my head, I try and remember last night, but it seems I've deleted it. Or it's deleted itself. I walk out of the shower and dress quickly, hoping that John would know. The flat is dark, so I turn on a few lights. Then a disgruntled, "Sherlock, no. Why-d-ya-havta do that?" It's John. "Do you remember last night?" I ask questioned. I found him now. He's under the kitchen table, legs drawn up, on his side, covered with only a blanket. Only. A blanket. His head lulls toward me, picking up. "No, now sleep."

_This rude Dr. Drewerson put me through three more tests. The only thing worthy he's done is keep it a secret (whatever the hell it is) to the rest of the crew. He escorts me back to the sonogram room, where I can lie down. I wait there thirty minutes before he comes back, three clipboards in hand, and envelopes of pictures. "You are possibly the first male in medical history to have successfully matured with a body like this!" His way of sneering around the truth is taunting. "Doctor. I wish to go back to my flat and forget about this all. Now please, for the sake of sakes, get it over with!" For once he's seeing my frustration. _

_"As you wish, Mr. Holmes." He gathers himself, putting clipboards in order and pictures inbetween. If I am dying, I'd be okay with it. Nothing could be worse than spending a day in his care. "It began when I inspected the bloating." He begins, fipping to the first paper. "At first I believed it to be a fatal injury to your intestines, something that takes you by surprise..." We're getting somewhere. "But it's not. I took these sonogram pictures." His eyes lurk from the pictures to me, then hands them to me. "Do you know why women go to get a sonogram?" He really just fucking asked me this. Like I, Sherlock Holmes, do not know! "They are pregnant." I reply, bored of all his intentions in helping._

I grunt loudly, stomping up to John's room, fishing clothes (only God knows what he did with his) then stomping back down. (I did wake up nude, but I do that anyway) I throw them his way, "I don't remember either, John." I sit down on the couch, feeling myself trying to draw a mystery out of nothing at all. This always happens after a case. I hear John bump his head on the table and lay back down, he's up. "You? Sherlock, you don't remember?" His voice seems somewhat awake. "I wouldn't lie about this. I sincerely cannot remember." There is silence, then John shimming in his clothes. I feel his eyes looking at me as he does. "But I did wake up feeling the aftermarks of possible drugs." I add in.

_He nods ferrociously at me, as if to edge me on, like I'm nearly to his point. Then I get it. Oh FUCKING HELL, no. This is a SICK joke, John must've planned it, no wonder this Doctor is so useless... "Stop. I am not some game to play at!" I flicker my eyes to my stomach again. If this is a game, then they are really good at making it seem real. "Really! Look, I took these pictures, and there's the x-ray'd anatomy! You are a one of a kind!" His smile only grew. I force my head out of curiosity to see the damned pictures. And very faintly, you could see the outline of a fetus. I've seen sonogram's before, and this is definitely a sonogram. But.. how? God, stop teasing me. _

_I look over at the x-ray, the fleshy, tissue x-ray that is absolutely ME. But yet it's not at all. I don't need to paint a picture to describe the horrors I screamed when I saw a very femal organ inside my one hundred percent MALE me. I craned my neck away, throwing the stack of papers across the room like a bomb. "Time! You just need time to soak this in! To see the beauty of it! I- You could be famous!" And I see the Doctor's persistence now. He thinks he can buy himself a spot in history with my- fuck- pregnancy. "If you say a word about this to anyone, to any person, even yourself... I will sue you for every penny you wish you owned. Then, by some chance, your name will be passed around the wrong end of London. Understand?" And I may or may not have just threatened him._

"Drugs? Yeah, we've done worse though. Right?" John looks as refreshed as I feel. Something tells me this wasn't just drugs or a bad deal. "Right." I shake my head away, throwing back the possibility of something bad happening. We can just forget I mentioned anything at all.

_I walk out, past John and the Doctor and everyone ushering me to stay. My head hurts with the idea, and if I stayed any minutes longer with those liars... They'd wish I walked out. The once hopeful day was now raining, no sleeting. My heavy feet pad away from the clinic, my mind completely dull of any thought whatsoever. How am I supposed to react to a time like this? To find out your different than your peers in a way other than intellect. It hurts, I don't want to admit this, but it really truly hurts. And not just that in general, it's the idea that I've been in a sexual encounter my mind cannot even-_

_I let the rain run down my face, my jaw in hung in shock, my body about to give out and I just sink against the brick of some store, the cold seeps through my thin clothes. I think I know what happened so many weeks ago. When John and I both woke up without a clue as to what the hell happened the night before. It makes sense that, THAT would be the night of the incident. John can't know. Nope. He's never going to find out. If I have to go into hiding until this thing is- dare I say it- BORN to preserve the secret, then I will. I just pray to the Heavens he's not the father, that would be my worst nightmare. Holding my friend down, scaring him with handcuffs of commitment. To a child he should have to pay a dime to._

"Well, I don't have work until six tonight.. Want to catch a late lunch?" John fishes around the flat for his wallet, happily nodding off our previous askings. One thing I like about John is we've been through so much now, that nothing could scare him off, he's used to getting beaten up. "Tea sounds good." That means yes. I smile again at him, then quickly walk to my room to fetch my trench coat. As I go in, though, I notice the place has been cleaned up imaculently. Usually, Mrs. Hudson would come in while we slept and put laundry together, but you'd think I would've heard her. I sigh it off.

_"Sherlock!" A voice phases into hearing, but I don't want to look. I sink my head into my arms. "Sherlock," John's been running as well, and he sounds like a weight has been lifted, "Your Doctor said you ran off! What's going on with you?" He's leaning infront of me, attempting to get me to open up. This is worse than being dressed like a six year old, now I am the protesting child. "Huh?" He makes every little nuisance I've dealt with today seem genuinely livable. "He's not my Doctor." I peek my eyes just above my arm, letting him decipher what he wants. "Of course he is, Sherlock, who did you think was?" His own eyes dance from each of mine. "You." Because I trust him more than some money grubber. Because you've helped me more last night than that Doctor has all day. _

_John runs a hand over his face and blows a breath, "Do you want me to reassign you under my name?" Could it really be that easy? But would I want him knowing what I know? "No." He gets closer, and for a minute I thought we had a crowd who had followed me. When I look around the flooding streets, it's only John. He was the only person to truly cared enough to run after me. "No?" He asks. Then I feel worse for mentioning it, "I don't want to have a doctor at all. The only thing I need is you to be around when I need you." Then I give a look, exposing more of my wind-rain plastered face, 'is that so much to ask?'. John's face loosens, 'No, that's not too much'. "Do you need me now?" I shake my head up and down, and we begin to get up, our weight evenly distributing between us. "Okay, alright. I'm taking the rest of today off. Just don't scare me like that. Not after Moriarty."_

**Not after Moriarty.**

John and I went to a very different place to get lunch. The grocery store. Where I could finally see if John could work a pin and chip machine without the use of my card. We were quiet inside, and I pretty much followed behind John the whole time in avoidance of touching anyone. I mindlessly replied back to John when he asked if we were making fetuccini or stroganoff. There was no way I could pay attention to things like that when other shoppers were clearly making drug deals, publicly making bad parent choices, yelling, and nearly every child under the age of five was screaming. So, no, there was no clue as to what John decided on.

But the grocer experience wasn't something to mark down for the books. It was the way John kept talking about this one woman he met. The whole cab ride home he documented his meeting with Mary, a possible waitress at a high end restaurant. He only met her once, and had a one minute chat with her, but he seemed to squeeze five minutes out of it. I was very bored by the time we entered the flat. "Her hair is blond, and she's very put together it seems..." He was still rambling as we stepped up each stair, "-John. Do you hear yourself? Instead of asking her out, you are wasting your time having a home cooked meal with your flatmate." I snatched the bags as I ran into the kitchen. If John was a cat and had cat ears, they would be perked up by now. "Well she isn't just a girl you can ask out, now is she? I have to do it right. I need to plan this."

Ladies and gentlemen. Here John Watson was being overly serious about asking out a woman whom he knows nothing about. I wouldn't be surprised if he waltzed up to her and asked her to marry him! "I have planning of my own, John. Like for the fact I forgot to get the milk you told me to get in the store." I was reading the instructions on the stroganoff (hey he chose it). Meanwhile John's face fell from serious, to disapointment, to a smile. "It'll work without it." He was really amused by me sometimes. I feel flattered most of the time, and others I join him in for the laugh. I went for the laugh.

"We could always ask your Mary to make us dinner." Okay, maybe he wasn't that amused. "Not funny."

* * *

**Author's Note: shorter chapter. Sorry. But the next chapter will involve a small time skip. Not by much, but to get to the feelings again. If anyone has read my other story 'Teenlock' and you read about my friend Gavin, I'll be sad to say he's passed away. I'm trying to reboot his old tumblr and keep his memory alive. But there's one thing he loved more than any fandom itself... Is their fanfiction. **


	4. NO no I had a bear with me

I have survived quite a few weeks now, possibly a month or so but who's counting, with minor change. Despite the constant trips to the bathroom whether that be for my bladder's needs or the fact I throw up every time I eat, I am fine. Despite the lack of need for a belt now, and the excess need for clothes other than button-ups, I am great. Despite the aching in my feet when I've been on them for longer than thirty minutes, I am peachy. Even despite the fact I am forcing myself to give up possible dangerous cases Greg's asked me on, I am so awfully ecstatic.

John sees it too. Comments on my mood sometimes, but dismisses it. I'm grateful he's dropped the subject of what happened so long ago in the clinic. Everything seems easier knowing he's not involved. I need him around as long I can. And when the time comes and it's clear my body's changing and not just my attitude, I will leave. Just until this kid is born, I find a suitable home, and then I will return. Hopefully this time I will come back before three years time.

_For the first time in my life, I wake up to the sound of an angel. My eyes are stuck together with sleep, mouth dry and tasteless from yesterday's exersion, I am overly swept with a need to just fall back asleep, but I don't. My head croons to the origin of the noise. It's gurgling, oooh'ing and eeeh'ing, so high pitched it could be mistaken as one of God's harp's, and it is rustling. My mind filters through the other noises around me just to home in on it. Right now, it's keeping me sane, from wheeling myself out of this place empty handed. From making a mistake._

_It's still dark in this white room. I suspect it's dead in the middle of the night. But the moon is so perfectly placed, I get to enjoy the dimmed sight of this angel. I look closer, on the raised bed it's delicately placed in, and read 'Hamish Holmes' on a blue name tag, then underneath it, 'baby boy: 7:07 P.M. And I mumble a voiced breath because, HE is my son. That small bundle of dark hair, rounded face, kicking feet, lush skin... All of him, is apart of me. Never would I have guessed a feeling so breathtaking could catch me by surprise, and force real tears to hurdle down my cheek and onto the white pillow. _

My flatemate has also made multiple arrangement with this Mary, woman. And since I cannot ploy a mystery or case to intervene, to get his attention, my only response to this has been null. I'm idly standing by while he charms her, day after day. Night after long night. Yet I am glad he has her. Him being away as often as he really is, makes my changes a thing he notices less and less. My growing stomach, (which still has yet to look like anything but a night of overeating), hasn't made it into a conversation. On this day, however, John seems to demand to spend his day off with me. "As your doctor..." He says. "... I need to be sure you are still you."

And we start off spending the day like we always did. Or used to. With me, knees up in my chair, cracking quizzical facts to John while he ignorantly types away at his blog. Which also confuses me since we haven't had a case in so long. "This is why a hair follicle is out of the question for forensics to baggie as evidence. The deterioration rate is beyond the protection of DNA, while a government scientist could still preserve this, the fools like Anderson could not. Thus trialing the sueing factor of the brunette and stag who threatened us with..." John's reply every minute with a, "Mmphm." Or "I see..." Keeping me going.

_My eyelids clamp so tightly that I cannot reopen them when a very different, very concerned voice lurks from the foot of my hospital bed. "Is everything alright? Do you need more morphine in your IV?" A voice that is unmistakenly John's rings sleepily. My lids lift finally, he was purposefully being quiet, whispering. Something about this seemed strange, but comforting. "You stayed." I whisper as well, not wanting to wake the already coo'ing newborn. John's face is shadowed, a sliver of moonlight framing his cheek, almost black and white. "I couldn't leave. Not knowing your condition." He produced a smile that blended into concern once more. My heart jumps then falls, skidding down my spine. "Irrelevant. You shouldn't have to be here, not with your work hours." I don't know why I banter, I do it all the time. _

_He folds his jacket he was wearing as a cover on the arm rest of the chair then stands to his feet. "My work hours have no relevance with this. You're right. Lets keep it seperate." He took my words kinder than most other times. Should I test his consideration? I watch him work a soft smile again before croaking his shoed in feet to Hamish. That name, though. Hamish. The day before was such a blurr I cannot blossom what my brain was thinking when picking 'Hamish'. "You should go get yourself proper sleep back home. It would be more sufficient to your health." My curls find their way to nuzzle again into the tear stained pillow, and I see John blocking my view from Hamish. He's leaning down, coming face to face with gods work of art. _

"...a note stating the whole crew neglected the opportunity to engage in properly investigating a crime scene. A crime scene, I might add, that dealt to be well put together. Too well, every detail was ployed with precision..." I continue my wordy rant about a crime that made its way on the telly, but I stop when John stops typing. He does this every now and then. His mind remembering a very important question he's been meaning to ask, an important detail he's forgotten to indulge me on. "Um, Sherlock. I was wondering-" I raise my eyebrows, as if I'm looking directly at him and he's not infact behind me, hands still on the laptop, doing the same as me. "What is your wonder, John?"

His nails graze the keys as he drops his hands to his lap, "I had to borrow your computer last night, considering you stole mine for a freezer experiment, and I was wondering why-" The way I visualize him staring at the screen as if he were speaking to my face get to me, it makes me mirror him. I hear his exhale then inhale gradually increase, "Why you had multiple adoption survices bookmarked, and many others pulled up on your email?"That was a valid question. The thoughts that could have been stomping his mind blinked through my head. Maybe he thought I was adopting a kid of my own, possibly he thought it was just for an experiment, or even I could have been investigating a case. He would never know the truth, I thought. "No worry of yours." It comes out as a stutter, because maybe I wanted it to be his worry.

_"I've had plently of rest, Sherlock. Why don't you go ahead and this time, you can be the one to sleep." He straightens his back, and I see the small bed Hamish was in, but he wasn't nestled in it anymore. John turns around, then, eyes fixed on the wide-eyed, tongue-stuck-out, beautiful being. He's bouncing him and swaying him at an equal pace, and it just looks like father and child. "Tell me John, does he have them?" My twist of words come out on a thoughts moment. He peeps a look at me briefly, "Them?" He smiles fondly. I look down at my hands on my deflated, still swollen stomach, "Ten fingers, ten toes, birthmarks, freckles, characteristics..." I clarify it to him, thumbing the finger around a patern on the hospital gown. _

_"Oh. He does have ten fingers. Definitely ten toes..." He begins, a smirk of a chuckle leaving his lips as he brushes Hamish's hands and feet with his two front fingers, "He has one birthmark that I know of on his hipbone," Again his palm tickles at the small fragile thing's side, "But I'm not too sure about freckles, not yet." His eyes slide to look at me for a minute longer, "But his characteristics are the icing on his blue, one candled cake." I was looking intently at John the whole time, and only blinked once John's route was made to me. His stong male hands setting the weak male baby in my lap facing me. "Sherlock, look at him." He mentions, and I know he wants me to do this properly. The Holmes way. The way you look so close at something, you deepen its meaning, making it more valuable. If that were possible however with this small human._

I turn my head sideways, looking at the same direction he is. There was a long silence filled with the telly's volume. "I apologized if it gave you any pang, but it was for personal matters." The second I say it John's head turns to mine, and he's thinking up so many words he can't say them. Again, a small period of silence. Then John relaxes back into his chair, "I see..." He drones out his words, and being typing again, his pointing fingers doing all the work. We go back to our onslaught of telly watching, blog updating, and pretending we're either listening or the other person 'is' listening. I like it like that though. It feels like home. It feels normal.

After the program on the tv is over, I rush to my feet like usual. But am graced with a sudden heat of light-headedness and sit back down just as quick. John was just shutting his laptop as well, and turns in the chair to face the curls on my head. "You feeling like yourself?" He stands to his feet no problem, walking to the kitchen. "I feel like Sherlock Holmes, yes, thanks for asking." I retort, liking the way I can see his sarcastic smile across the way. "Alright, then, you better not pass out later when we go to Gomez'." Ah, gomez's, the first restaurant John remembers seeing me actually eat something. He now offers to take me there when I've been out of my wits. He says something like the atmosphere brings the best out of me. "I'm not hungry." Though the pig inside of me disagrees. John swims his way to the counter and grabs his phone, typing away. "I'm ordering it to-go, just incase you get a call from Greg and don't have time to eat inside." Then the cell is squeezed in the crook of his ear.

_I take him in, my little Hamish. This may possibly be the first time I've seen him. Actually seeing him. His features screaming two people, like you mixed my baby photo's with that of another... another male's. My breath hitches again, and my mind palace explodes into my brain, forcing images into my eyes. And my head once again plugs in the facts of who the father really is. The other father. And that night, that sexualized, hormone released, night. It was possibly the best night of my life. Better than satisfaction of a 'good murder'. Seeing Hamish plunges the thought of him into memory. A memory which is right beside me. "He has blue eyes, starving blue eyes. And a squared, round face. long fingers yet stubbed nails. Nose pointed up, not small but not overly large. Skin, fair. I know he'll tan well, so being in the sun won't bother him a bit." I suck in air, my dry mouth still as dry as when I awoke._

_"But his lips. Th- They aren't... His lips don't look like mine." I was oogling Hamish's expressional face, I was hooked on him like he was a drug. My words obviously bothered John, his stance became immediately uncomfortable, uneasy. He knew Hamish had another biological parent. He knew. But he's never thought about it, thought about the process of creating Hamish in his mind quite like I have. I don't want to continue, I can't, not while knowing John has unmet feelings. I listen close while John gathers up courage to speak, "Who do they look like?" The words of his, those precise words. If he knew what they did to me... IF he only knew. "A man's. He's a good man, I think. But I think too much. Hamish's characteristics also possess the man's stout'ness, nevermind the fact Hamish will grow to be a perfectly sized tall adult." You could tell by the way Hamish kicked his lengthed legs. You could also tell by the way John stood on his own pair of legs. _

The cell phone is put away and John makes his way to the chair opposite mine. He's ignoring the telly I've just found interest in again. He's looking at me. And not just looking. He's fucking observing. "Put your knees down." John instructs, holding his head on a hand propped on the arm rest. My mind goes straight to, 'Oh god he knows, he damn well knows'. Hesitantly, I lower my legs, feet planting on the ground without a sound. John's head falls comfortably in his hand as his eyes look lazily over me. "I thought something was strange!" He smiles off, lifting his head to watch television. I drop my mouth, "Pardon me?" I lift my legs again, awkwardly positioning them to an indian style seating in the small chair.

John gives me a good two seconds of a look. "You aren't wearing your button-up. I don't think I've seen you without one." He says so nonchalantly it takes my brain a long time to process. 'Good'. He doesn't know. Not yet. Not never. Soon, this will become too risky to keep secret. Soon, John will find out for himself. "It looks bad, then?" I ask, lightheartedly, praying it sounds conversational and not serious. John laughs his head away from the telly, "It looks fine." His smile falters away from laughter. I push a button with him, hoping to pop his bubble of a lie, "Oh really?" I ask. John spits out a croak of a laugh, "No, hell no! It looks bloody hilarious." I can see why he's laughing. I'm wearing my plain gray tshirt under my coat. Ridiculous is right.

_"I'm stout." John utters his reply in a whisper that is maximized into my ear, electrifying my brain waves and pulsing its way to scissor my heart in half._


	5. (I'm sorry for Chapter joke)

"I'm going to rowl the town with Mary tonight. Need anything?" He pierces the words at me. Yesterday, I may have mentioned doing research up at the morgue with Molly's presence. In saying this, I meant for him to come, as always. But now, it seems I have to sew him into things. Attach his name at the end, or else he'll do this. Go out with 'her'. "Yes." Lately, I've been drawing my knees up to my chin, much to my discomfort. The belly again, getting rounder, sticking out, something I deal with alone. But necessary to hide it from John, and sometimes Mycroft.

I hear John twitch his keys in his hand, pausing. "And what would that be?" He pushes. Though I love it when he does. Gives me hope that he still cares somewhat. Not that I need him caring. I don't. Not really. It just feels nice to know it. "Hair dye. Blonde. Don't get bleach, just plain blonde hair dye." My hands were loosening the handles on syrenges as I spoke. The needles weren't in them, i'm not stupid. It was an experiment for another crime. Speaking of experimenting... "You're dying your hair." He was on to something.

I feel my teeth expose in a smile. Then I put down the syrenges. "It'd seem that way to you, but no. I need to freeze the container for an-" John's words vibrate through his hand covering his mouth. "Experiment. I get it. Look, I would like you to join us for dinner sometime. A harmless, crime free, dinner. Mary is weary of the stories I've told her and she needs to at least meet you before judging." What do I say? Yes? That is expected. A simple yes. "But I have met her. She's a waitress slash librarian with a need for book clubs. I'm sure she's judged me appropriately." His hand falls to his pocket, his other hand groping keys. He seems rather anxious about something. I can't be sure yet.

"Dinner. Us three. This Saturday, no excuses." John says. Not that I have any excuse to use. No cases, not ones safe enough to take. No clients, none safe enough to bring in the flat. Nothing. God! Every little thing that surrounds me has to be safe and clean and... It's too much. It's change. Mentally doing this by myself isn't fun. If John knew he could watch over me, catch me from doing something dumb. Idiotic, as he would say. This little thing inside of me, scares me. It hurts, it moves, and definitely doesn't belong where it is. God help me.

I look up to reply, my mind temporarily ran amuck. He's gone, the door freshly shut. Left without a goodbye. Alone. "Alright." I reply to him anyway, my swollen feet going down. My shirt fortunately didn't ride up, so there was no need to readjust it over the hill when my hands went to do just that. So, I'm having dinner Saturday. In public. In a most likely high end restaurant not fit for wearing a coat. A place I will be exposed. I need to be careful. Hiding this- I have to hide- I... I can't.

Sincerely, from the pit of my oversized stomache I cannot bare to hide this. Not intentionally. I am treating this unborn human so disgracefully. I recall Mycroft's stories of Mummy doing this whilst pregnant with me. She'd bundle herself in layered clothing, coats, and hide me from her friends. And when I was born? She left me with Nanny. This is what I am doing to this baby. Except there is no nanny, there is only hopeful adopting parents. Despite my mind telling me 'no no no' my heart (yes, I still have one) aches to be an honorable person. I just won't say anything. I'll be moderate with my clothing. What is to be, will be.

*Friday*

Legs tentatively spread out on coffee table, butt scooted comfortably on couch, and telly blaring loudly. A program featuring rich kids being forced into a working normal life, on. My eyes dancing wildly awake upon hearing the door open, a noise shocking me despite the telly. Though I calm down seeing John stomp quickly for a remote. "ARE YOU DEAF?!" The last word is comparitively louder when he mutes it. I pout at him, he's woken me up, and he's late.

"I've waited six hours for you to return from work, but you never did." I accused him, watching his face completely fall. He's not the same. Lately, he's been bugged. Should I mention? "Fuck, Sorry Sherlock. I thought you'd be wrapped up in a project, finishing up the hair dye thing. Mary picked me from work." She picked him up from work. Isn't it obvious? They went home, had sex, and had a fight promptly after. It is written in cursive on his neck, hands, clothing.

"Forget about it. You don't need another bother over your head." I wave him off, pressing my hands just under my chin and lazing over the telly, reading lips. The rich kids on tv are learning to do their own laundry. One is crying. The unnatural red headed boy is climbing in the machine. The nose jobbed girl just mixed red into white. They are helpless. Simple minded.

"How did you know." John's sitting beside me, eyes pressing onto my face. The information was there, John, isn't it obvious? "I don't need telling you that I don't know, I noticed." He's nodding, but not looking away. The corner of 'my' eye catching his about to fall, but he absent-mindedly runs his eyes over me. I feel the burn, and I wait for him to say it. "Oh." He blinks, hand still on the remote turning the volume down, unmuting it.

The crying teen curls up, into the laundry basket, hiding their face in the expensive cotton. The red head boy has turned on his machine and is now spinning in the open top, water splashing. The nose girl is throwing her tarnished clothes out the third story window, her mum finally making presence and practically climbing out on the sill for them. Children, all of them. The teens, the parents, the director. A kid shall never have to live like this.

Many minutes pass of John laughing and scolding the teens. I join in a couple of times, enthralling him with the shared laughter. Then he goes quiet for awhile. It's notable, the teens on the telly are actually being taught stuff this time and there is no need for a laugh or judgement. The appropriate response would be applause actually. The once crying teen now being talked to by therapists. John's silence isn't suspicious. I thought.

"You feeling well?" He reaches his hand for a mug he must have placed on the coffee table without my noticing. Drinks it. I look at myself, unthinking, still in my past pose of being sprawled out, legs even wider, body nearly lying down. "Still a bit tired." My mood matches the one on screen. John matches none I can think of. He's concentrated. Heart sped up, blinding in my ear. Breath letting out through his mouth. "S'that all?" Eyebrows raised to the middle of his forehead. I don't want to look at him. I beg that he doesn't know just yet. Just a day after my declaration of honoring it- him or her.

"I hope it is." I test. The air is thicker, it's getting harder to breath. It feels like smoke, and I can't cough it out. My head turns to him, slow. He slacks his jaw, "What is that, Sherlock?" He speaks so quietly, like he doesn't want to awake someone. I straighten out, cross my legs, arms over abdomen. "Nothing of your concern." I lie. If it was his concern, I'd be just a little more at ease. If anyone knew besides that , I'd be at ease.

"No, what is it? If this has ANYTHING to fucking do with that doctor's appointment and you running out, I will be furious!" A strange twist of yelling and standing and being genuinely afraid. Veins in his temple distracting me from his eyes. Livid. The telly has been droned out. Yet, this time, I don't feel like bantering back. I physically can't let the words fall from my lips to tell him anything. I just stare at him with pleading eyes to drop it. My hands wrapping tighter over myself. Not yet, I beg of you.

"It does. Doesn't it? Sherlock." His voice lowers and shakes, "Sherlock. Sherlock, just know what you being gone did to me last time. Just have that in the back of your head. Just know that, that I need to know you'll be okay. Nod, at least, if you understand." Tensions slowly drendils out of his system. My head goes down, I glance a look at the baby then look up. Weigh out options. The slight possibility this child could be of shared DNA. Remind myself him knowing could be danger for him. How again? I forget.

"Just don't leave again." I've said this before. I remember saying this. This time I mean it. More even. John looks me over once more, calculating the severity of my words. "Just don't kill over you git." Corners of his mouth sneaking a grin. It's funny how he can be so soothing to me, even when mad. I prefer him like this, though. Smiling, comforting.

_"You are... Indeed." John's firm fingers are dancing up my shoulder, settling on my neck. I guess it would be time. For the whole truth to be laid out as evidence. The evidence of that night, the drugs, the waitress, the two men, the nudity. "Stout." My voice cracks a finish. Fine lines of this moment bring my eyes to settle on Hamish, and Hamish alone. How his eyes are inevitably shaped like mine yet coloured as his. Blue, blue orbs. I listen to John's tired mouth come closer to our space, Hamish's and I's space. He's welcome here. _

_"His name is Hamish." Another tangle of breath invading us. Hamish's eyes are closing, the blueness fading under lids. It's quieter. "You once said, 'just if you're looking for baby names', so I took you up on the offer." I'm still looking at the child, falling asleep now, but my attention is zoned on John. "Yes, well, that was a joke. And also for Irene and you, not-" He stops talking so abruptly it sounds like a sentence closing, like he didn't stammer. "For us?" I settle into it, he knows, there shall be no more dancing around the fire. _

_He comes closer, leans in, cheek angled with mine, both looking at the small infant's longing breath. Never in my life have I wanted to kiss somebody this badly. Not even of the night of conception, nothing will compare to my thirst for just one peck of affection. "I like it better this way." He decides, hand stretching infront of me, he's reaching for Hamish. But no, oh no he's not. With his initial hand on my neck already, the other warmly falls to my opposite cheek. And as a beautifully answered prayer, his lips push onto mine, fleshy with the hint of teeth behind. His skin letting me know just how clammy I am. It's fine though. Brilliant even. His tongue darted out seconds before leaning in, so the added slip against each other is aided by his saliva. His eyes are open, I can feel him watching me. But mine aren't, I sense of relief and giddiness took over forcing them close. _

_I take a look at myself then. Feeling and realizing that: The warming, heavy, barely moving bundle settled between my legs is mine. He's Hamish, my own baby to look after. The denying gay male kissing me is also mine, now. He's John, a colleague that's done nothing but support and trust me. What is this? Could it be an adopted Hamish, never knowing his real parents? Could it be a single parent, failing horribly at being anything while the other father goes and lives a heterosexual life with his wife? Or, just maybe. Could it be husbands tumbling a child in the mix of detective work and mysteries? _

_I beg the last. _

_Though love is strange. Love can be sexual, most of it is. Love can be purely in thought. Living with someone, saying you love them everytime you pass, hugging every chance you get. What does John want? His lips part as he leans back, bracing me in his hands. Expression pleased, sedated. "I like it too." Double meaning. I've climbed so far up this ladder of high, that I can't climb down. I will only do so if he's waiting at the bottom. _

_"Does that mean you like me as well?" He's still whispering, voice clattering in the space between us. Do I need to slap him or reply? It should be clear as water. "You and this little man." I reel a look towards that certain human being. Still sleeping. John shakes a laugh, looking fondly. A good sign. Great sign. "He looks like you. Too much like you." And he tests again. Like he's not sure. If he's to be a parent or not. Though his face doesn't look to scared to be tied to me. Previous assumptions out the window. He wants this._

_"I'd disagree completely, John. With that skin tone, unique vocals, eyes, and facial structure... He's all yours." I grin through it, like a funny joke, but John's not laughing. No, he's more gasping than anything, lucky we're in a hospital. He's trying to talk but he's just mouthing. And he's stepping backwards, leaning against the window sill, finding a wall, hand feeling forehead. Reaction to shock. I thought he knew. I just assumed. "Please. I didn't mean to. There's nothing you have to do... John, i'm not-" Sherlock Holmes gets scared. A lot. Just hides it well. Not now. With all these fresh hormones rampant through my post-birthing body, no, I can't control it. I've scared John more than dreamt._

_His back scrapped down the wall beside my bed, my eyes look down on his head of hair buried in his palms. Legs drawn up, resembling mine. I'm missing something. "I'm sorry." My arms reach and resettle Hamish on my chest, leaning back, thinking about what I've done like a child. Then his hand comes up from the ground, he's holding my arm. He's warm. "Don't apologize, Sherlock." He sigh's standing up slowly, situating himself. "Really, I'm just struck without a thought to say. Maybe I'm the one sorry. No, I am. All this time, I've been so clueless." It takes seconds before he looks at me again. Hamish next to my face. "I didn't tell you. That's why you were clueless, John." I fess up, getting it off my chest. "You couldn't tell me! You were the one bloody pregnant! If your mind runs a mile a minute on a good day, I just ponder what it's went through lately." Oh. _

_It has been rather busy. Thinking about babies. Then John. Then Mary. Then crimes I can't solve. Then then then. I wish it'd just stop. With a, finally. But no. It can't. "This wasn't meant to be. All this. One night of getting drugs through our systems and here we are. This conversation, wouldn't have been said." It dawns on me. Crazy enough, John nods along, then shakes his head. "It has, it did, this is all real, so we have to make due." When he whispers again I realize that he had been talking rather loudly, could've awoken Hamish. "Starting with giving him whatever we can. So whether that be seperately or together, it's your choice." He's close again._

_"I need to think." I say. Because I want to deduce what John really wants. Is this newfound love just sympathy or reality? I need time to decide. We all do. "I can give you that." Finally (the word I wanted), I see him smile again. The sensation of his lips still lingers but I need to ignore it. I need to know how this will end. "Thank you."_


	6. (Not that sorry actually)

The dinner date. With John, Mary, and myself. It was a daunting task just to dress accordingly. Yet knowing John would keep the personal assessment aside, I felt more at ease. And also prayed Mary would do the same. When I got dressed, I found myself waking back up in the armchair. I suppose while waiting for John to text me, I dosed off. Wierd. Never have I slept this much. It's impeding my life. Before, I would sleep two hours on a good day. Lately, if I find the time, I will snooze ten plus hours. My body's adjusting.

*Buzz buzz* Flick phone out.

'Heading to restaurant. Be here in fifteen.' JW

I swallow away the taste of sleep in my mouth and get up. Out of everything I will vow to put up with for John, this has to be the worst. But I do it anyway. I pet down my unruly hair, smooth out the wrinkles in my loose button up(courtesy of John's wardrobe), and sneak my magnifying glass in my pocket. When I leave the house, I still find myself preparing for a case. Whether it be with the magnifier, or a notebook. I think this is testing me, seeing how long I can survive without deducing some problem.

After a quick glance in the mirror, (just to inspect the coverage and overall noticability), I am on my way. I blank out in the cab, but decide it was for the best and possibly the reaction to a moving car with an uneasy stomache. My feet are heavy as I make entrance, and I am surprised and slightly pleased by John's choice. The restaurant is America owned and run, I've heard of it, it's nice. Making way to the front, I tell the waitress there should be a table waiting for me. And lo and behold, John and Mary have just sat down.

When seeing them in their natural element, just them together, I see another side of him. He smiles the same, yes, but there is hope in his blue eyes. I best leave it there because 'hope' could mean anything. I mustn't divulge. I watch them for an estimate thirty seconds, seeing but not being seen. But it's time to do this. Hopefully without fault. The added weight to my middle forcing a rocked back walk as I make way.

"-And then he jumped the fence again! Again! Then started lugging me behind him down these alleyways..." John was retelling a crime story, one I remember fondly. I stop immediately in there presence upon hearing. Instead of thinking of their future, they are on the subject of a murder. Splendid. Mary tapped at John's arm and gestured to me with a smile. He turns to, showing his stubbled face. Didn't shave, was it because of lack of time or decision on going rugged.

"Sherlock, fancy seeing you." He began scooting his chair in to allow me space to fit between him and the person behind him. I sat, smiling for some reason. "And Mary, pleasure." I say, the smile falling as soon as we meet eyes. I thought this would be fun. I'll try. "John was just telling me about your dangerous affair with a murderer?" She went straight to accusing, instead of conversational. John's hand tensed with his drink in hand. I found my smile again, maybe this will be a shape of fun. "Funny, how affairs are. I see you've dabbled in the married life before." Her ring finger, exposed with a tan line. She was engaged and married to the bloke for an average two years.

John spits the tea he began drinking, sputters. Mary laughs. She laughs. Why would you laugh when I insulted you? "Twice, actually. But both wanted to marry me for my money. It took me awhile to realize that." Her hand his on her neck, she's eyeing around the room. She's embarrassed. Does John see it too? I look at him. And he's giving me a wide-eyed look. I shouldn't have said that. "Anyway, how about we get dinner on the table, then? Waitress!" His face shot back for some normalcy. But what did he expect of me? He knows how I am. I can't act for his pleasure. Though I easily could. Mary just ticks me off.

"Good. I'll be having the chicken, what are you eating Sherlock?" Mary leaned in towards me, pointing to a menu. I was hungry actually. Really hungry, but this situation made me sick to my stomach. There was going to be no eating. "Just order me a glass of water, I foolishly ate before arriving." Smiles, more fake smiles, John's nervous smile. And he orders for us, getting an American cheeseburger, saying he loves them when he's never had one.

Then they begin talking again. About something else. With me as a third wheel to the conversing. "Next weekend sound good to you? We could go to the fair or amusement park. See sights?" He's sweating slightly, hairline visibly glistening. "Couldn't we just do something a little more secluded? What about an out of town hotel trip? Or spa visit?" She is so utterly dull. No man in their right mind would willingly lose all their hard earned money to sitting in a tub of filthy mud. I see John's frustration at her, his lips thinning. "Alright, that sounds better even." Sarcasm. I know it, why would he do this? To himself, really.

I'm so glad when their food is set infront of their faces and Mary begins stuffing her face. I give her five years for her metabolism to collaspe and she be faced with a weight problem and possible kids to juggle. No, four years. John, on the other hand can eat what he likes, his lifestyle is always so hectic (with me at least), it doesn't matter. And I sip at my water, looking down on it, scolding it for being so incompetently bland.

The waitress asks for dessert, Mary declines due to high prices. (I thought she was rich?) And John is too full. This is my chance to slip away. They will most likely stay sitting there for another ten or fifteen minutes. "This was a nice dinner, Mary, John. Nice chatting." I smile. Let this please just end, come to a close. "You going already?" Mary sounds sad, but her face is happy. Rude. John sets his drink down, "You can stay if you'd like." He smiles too, but it's genuine. Polite. "No, no. My presence has been made. Mrs. Hudson needed help anyway, must be getting to it." They let me off, and I stand.

We exchange goodbye's. As I leave, I see John's face loosen, his hopeful look still there but weary. Hmm... Before leaving I pay the check, though I didn't eat. It'd be nice. Then I step out into the raining skies. Still intact from the horrors that is a relationship and being around one. My attention was so drawn to their coupled reactions that I didn't realize the pain in my legs and back. This ordeal is taking its toll. And now I am wet. And no cab is taking me because I am so thoroughly soaked. I probably look homeless. My shirt now sagged. Coat hanging to me. This will be a long walk.

*A Few Months*

Waiting. Breathing. Counting. But what is it? What am I waiting for? For this pregnancy to end? For John to move back in? He hasn't officially moved out, but it's close to it. He rarely sleeps here at night, visits and spends rare days with me. But he's so troubled all the time, so busy, so out of it. Could it be I am waiting for John to realize what Mary's doing? Because he doesn't know. She's cheating him. Of a life. They're just existing and not experiencing. Though, I am not one to compare to. All I can do these days is wallow around the flat, eat, sleep. I've gained weight in unusual places, and my pregnant abdomen is sticking out so pitifully.

Actually, I don't need him back. He doesn't need to see this. I forget.

I am laying my back on the table, lying on it, subconsiously overlooking creases in the ceiling. I shucked off my shirt and swaddled myself in my trench. My pants are still on as well, but they're unbuttoned and tight. I look like an alien. I shock myself sometimes walking past a mirror. Can't help it though. Not now. The window, open, letting the harsh winds from outside gush in. Papers long blown across the room. A storm's coming. It's been coming. Maybe that's what I was waiting for.

Listening. Hearing it roar and growl, lift and fall, dragging a looming sense of darkness in it's voice. Tonight, it will hit. Breathing, deeper. counting ceiling wrinkles slower. Sleepy. Then I fall into it, all at once. Sleep. Dreams. Then beating, in my head. My heart? It's heart? Insistent beating. Our hearts? Then it pounds heavily.

I'm awake. It's the door. Not beating, knocking. Then intertwined with the lace of wind, keys chingling. The door opens. John. God, thank goodness, it's him. "Sherlock! I-I thought you'd be out trying to solve a crime in this! I was about to go hunt for you!" His eyes drooped on the sides, "Don't do that to me." Hand clenching and unclenching repeatedly. "Bloody hell." He's drenched. He's been running.

"Close this, DAMNED thing." He bolts and tightens the window close, the wirling wind stopping in seconds. It's quieter. "Where's Mary?" I question, flipping my coat a button together, to hide my nude torso. I'm sitting up on the table now, letting the blood start pumping to my head again. He takes a heavy seat on his old armchair. "Busy!" He replies, antsier than ever. It's not just the rain that's bothering him. It's her.

I save my breath, taking an arched leap off the table, wincing the moment I do. Then there's a readjustment of my coat, and an exchanged weary glance. His mind is a tornado, and it will rampage my own mind as well. Much like the weather outside, it's looming, expectant of a greater thing to come. And I can't help but feel responsible for a percentage of his misfortune. I know he's still curious about me. He's looking now. Again.

'Curiousity killed the cat' I want to tell him. 'Let it go' I should scream. But I just look, the rain pelting harder, the weather's muffled noises filling the flat. 'Go ahead and assess me' my mind challeges him. 'I dare you' it taunts. Maybe my mind is the tornado. "I feel faint" my mouth says. Did I say that? Really? No, I didn't. I don't feel faint. Do I?

"You're pasty as hell, Sherlock." John is standing, eyeing me oddly. It dawns on me that he wasn't assessing the pregnant belly as much as he was assessing me in general. He knew I was feeling out of myself before I even knew it! Bless him. "Sit back down before you feel any worse... Actually, how about we get to Mrs. Hudson's floor, take shelter just incase this rain takes for the ugly." One of his hands on my shoulder, the other carefully on my side, directing me. My vision went black and white, fuzzy. When again? I'm loosing a sense of direction the more steps we take. "The floor is moving!" I starve a breath, closing my eyes, a huge rush of blood was leaving my head. Another feeling of blacking out. It passes.

"You're doing good, lets just get you down the stairs." Stairs... Seventeen, right? Rocking, back and forth. Legs limping. Stairs. Falling. I fell. John's got me though. We stammer half way down. I fall again. But I blank out. "Sherlock!" The black and white fading into a lovely shade of gray. Shit.

Then the beating again. Insistent on driving me mad. It sounds like stacking empty cardboard boxes. "Just look over here, at me." A tapping on the side of my face. "Right here." Two pairs of hands on my head, one pair of knees at my side. Mrs. Hudson and John. My eyes open, I take note they were rolled back before. I'm squinting, looking over the room. "I fell." I see John's head nodding along, his body becoming clearer and clearer. "You did, but I was there."

That is a nice sentiment. 'You were there'. But soon, you won't be. Mary will be waiting for you, she's in line now, ahead of me. "The storm's passed?" I ask, because, frankly, the absense of pelting rain startles me. "Yes, but there is major flooding, we're lucky not to have been swimming." He's looking everywhere but my eyes, still patting me down in case I was in any bodily danger. "This storm. A good cover for a murder." I say, halfly out of instinct.

Mrs. Hudson chuckles, and she stands, then walks to another room. She's been quiet, but happily so. "Yes, but you are in no position to be waltzing about in your condition." His eyes find mine again, and his hand extends to lift me up. This time I find the room without all the spinning. "My condition? And to what condition are you referring to? I've passed out many of time in your presence." There was little time to reflect on my exposed torso. My coat had been picked off, and there was a feeling of, 'This is beyond unusual, yet completely welcome'. John's seetering off his chuckle, teeth together and clenched.

"I'm so confused, Sherlock. This right here is the condition i'm referring to. Really, i'm not sure if there's something you haven't told me, or it's something you haven't told yourself." He's bringing it up. Hand hovering, so close to touching the extension of my abdomen. I think he actually knows what's going on. He's catching up. He's here. Right, then. "It's... Obvious, isn't it, John?" I find myself in a sort of human code. Shaking my head, looking away, hands fidgeting. All because of John.

"That this is...? That, you're um...? You've...?" They are unfinished questions.

I hold my neck still for just two seconds to say, "That this is a womb? That, i'm pregnant? I've had sex?" Processing. Clicking. Mrs. Hudson, clueless. Tray of cookies fallen on the ground. "How?" Was his reply. A broken, voiceless reply. But I don't responde, instead I stand slowly and help our landlady with picking up fresh baked, chocolate chip, cookies. She's shaken slightly, and she's in dire need of comfort, but I don't think she needs it from me. Not yet. So I, "John come and assist her to a couch, console her," tell John to. And he does, no more questions asked.

And I find my coat. And I button it up snug. And I slid on shoes with no socks. And I dangle my scarf untied over my shoulders. And I take a walk, to see the damaged city. I leave.

_My body is feeling very strange things. After the birth, I realized what nearly two days of contractions and a scalpel to my tight belly really does to you. And I also realized that I was asleep for nearly two days before I woke up again. But that's fine. My body will heal. My brain's on the move now. It needs to think clearly again. See how John feels, see what is for the greater good. What Hamish needs. I was told the second I get to the flat to lie down, let the stitches dissolve near scar free, but I couldn't. I loved the way I could walk around again without an estimate ten pounds strapped to my front. I was alive._

_I missed that closeness though. Throughout the pregnancy I never talked to my baby, unless I cursed him. I never ran my hand affectionately over him, never. I wanted to now but it's too late. But that's fine though. I can touch and talk to 'the real' thing now. The wide (and blue) eyed, bouncing, bubbly, baby boy. Hamish Holmes... And hopefully one day... We will have 'two' Hamish Watsons._

* * *

**Author's Notory: We buried my friend Gavin, so that was the dely. I found a paper in his room that was revised and very sherlocked lyrics from the song "Fiction by A7X" I may post them. But I love you for reading the fic and also 'this'. Making fanfictions may be a outlet for personal emotions, but that's what makes them so good. Right? Love you to the moon and back! **


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